


The Main Reason To Visit West Virginia Is Not, In Fact, The Scenery

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [29]
Category: Homestuck, Mothman (Folklore)
Genre: Demonstuck, M/M, Tags will be added as necessary, at least mildly nsfw the entire time, because D is a gay disaster whose mind goes straight into the gutter when he sees mothman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:45:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: I don't even know where to start with the summary for this fic, but basically? D Strider used grindr to hook up with a random dude. In West Virginia. A couple miles from Point Pleasant, actually.Does anyone else see where this is going yet?(Note: this fic is currently complete despite the chapter count being low by one. This does not affect the storyline at all.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [art ](https://knight-of-heart-and-art.tumblr.com/post/183617572571/tardisclan672-submitted-to)for this fic by tardisclan672 on tumblr!

You put yourself down as a switch on the profile, but the fact that you almost always filter for guys who list themselves as tops or doms really does tell the truth a hell of a lot more efficiently. Of course it does. 

Hey, you know what you want from the goddamn dating site. 

What you _don't_ filter for is like, distance. Which is actually a good thing, because if you did you totally would've missed out on the absolutely _gorgeous_ dude that pops up when you check the app. Yeah, he's in West Virginia, but does that really matter? He's hot, he doesn't look like an asshole (you could be wrong about that but at least he's not the kind of guy who puts nudes right in his profile) and you're worrisomely willing to take a thousand-mile trip just to get laid. 

Well. Not _just_ to get laid, probably. With a lil' digging you should be able to find a demonic excuse to book a flight up there. There's always weird shit going down on the east coast, right?

* * *

Right. Definitely right. 

It takes maybe ten minutes of filtering through the email hotline Hal set up a couple years ago to find a cluster of reports of "satan worshippers" and "demons" in the woods near some nowhere town maybe ten minutes from the guy you wanna hook up with. The best part is that you're pretty damn sure that there's nothing supernatural going down; most demons ain't dumb enough to burn pentagrams into trees, lay out dead fish in "occult patterns." (Also, who the hell is reporting this? They need to lay off the Lovecraft novels.) 

Eh. It's weird enough that you can get away with heading up to investigate it and staying a bit longer than you need to. It'll be fine. 

Hal leans over your shoulder as you're clicking options in the form to get the plane ticket, raising an eyebrow when you glance up at him. "What?" 

"You should swing by Point Pleasant when you're up there and buy me a t-shirt." 

"Huh." You check the last box and open another tab, look up a map of West Virginia. Hey, yeah, you _are_ gonna be right fucking there by the birthplace of your absolute favorite cryptid...okay, you're so going to have to try to get Grey to agree to a date that includes a detour to go see the mothman statue. "T-shirts for you and Dirk, plushie for Davesprite...yo Dave, what kinda mothman shit do you want?" 

"Catch the dude and bring him back down here!" Dave yells from somewhere at least a couple rooms away. 

"Yeah, I withdraw my t-shirt request in favor of Dave's idea." 

"You and me both, kid. Dave, you want a sweatshirt?" 

"Yeah, that's the next best thing."

* * *

What you end up doing is setting up a meeting with Grey, about two hours after your flight lands. It gives you time to dump your shit at the hotel, take a shower, and make a decision on how heavily armed you can get away with being.

The answer is "not very." At least not directly on you; you're planning on stashing at least a sword and a couple guns in the rental car, reasonably easy to get ahold of, but the only weapons you're going to keep with you are folding knives. Hey, they're easy to hide and explain away if you fail at hiding them, just as long as he doesn't somehow manage to notice all of them at once. Even then, you're charming enough to get away with having eight blades stashed on you, right? 

One hundred percent right. You're the charming bastard, it's you. 

You also have your shirt on backwards. Goddamnit D, why are you an actual gay disaster?

* * *

Even though you show up ten minutes early, the guy's at the cafe already, sitting at one of the booths with a notebook on the table in front of him. He's, uh...way more impressive than you expected, and you didn't exactly have low expectations for this, okay, you were excited for a reason. 

He glances up while you're still standing there and staring, and yeah, you kind of expect some kind of smirk or eye-roll or something because the look on your face has _got_ to be embarrassing as hell, but what he actually does is smile at you and set his pencil down, getting to his feet. 

(Holy shit he is so fucking tall. Holy shit. You're gonna _combust_ ; this guy's got to be at least six foot eight, and he's built like...you don't even know. Your brain isn't producing words other than, like, _big soft huge hot_. He could probably pick you up like a toddler. You want him to do that, you _definitely_ want him to do that.) 

"You're D, right?" he asks, and holds out his hand even though you're _clearly_ having a gay crisis right now. "Robert Grey." 

"Like the monster in that one book," you say, like an idiot, and shake his hand. 

And instantly jerk back and spit out a word that makes the barista look over at you like you just slapped her. Grey, though, just looks crestfallen, not surprised or scandalized. Like he was kind of expecting you to be able to clock that he isn't actually human. 

Well, if he was expecting you to back out he's got another think coming. 

"Did you order something yet?" you ask him. 

"Yes, but I understand if—" 

"Awesome, c'mere." 

The look on his face when you grab his hand and yank him towards the bathroom is _priceless._ Thankfully, he comes along easily enough, because there's no way in hell you could drag him. 

You don't look over at the barista, but you're pretty sure she's trying to murder you with her eyes right now.

* * *

The door shuts behind you and you lean against it, and Grey just stands there looking a lil' bit baffled as you look up at him. 

"What are you?" you ask him. When he doesn't answer, you start listing your dealbreakers. "Okay, pretty sure you ain't anything that's got a taste for human, at least not to snack on. Incubus? God, I'd make an exception for the 'no fucking incubi' rule for you, man, I don't give a fuck if you gotta drop me at the hospital after—" 

"I'm not an incubus." 

"Awesome; do you want the rest of the list of things I'm not supposed to hook up with, or are you just gonna tell me which one you are?" When he just sighs and runs one hand though his shoulder-length black hair, you point out, "Look, no offense but I'm a hunter. Like, one with two nieces who have a habit of layering spells on everyone they know, trying to make sure nothing nasty fucks me up. This is as much about your safety as it is mine." 

He blinks, at that, and for a second his dark eyes flicker to something else. More red, less human. Nothing you've ever seen before, you don't think; they phase back to normal before you can get a good enough look to tell. 

"Spells shouldn't affect me," he says, and you've been around your kids and Dave long enough to know an evasion when you hear one. 

"Grey, come on. My kids're dating a demon, a vampire, and a fuckin' kelpie; there's like no chance you're gonna get weirder than I've already handled." 

The corner of his mouth quirks up a little, and even before he says anything you know he's about to prove you wrong. 

"So, D Strider...what do you know about the sighting at Clendenin cemetery in 1966?" 

It's a good thing you're leaning against the door, because your legs fucking _buckle_ as you hear yourself breathe out, "No _fucking_ way." 

His eyebrows go up. "Huh. I wasn't expecting you to get it that quickly." 

"You're fucking mothman," you point out, and immediately amend that to, "Shit, no, _I_ might be fucking mothman at some point in the near future, holy _shit_ —" 

The barista chooses this moment to start banging on the door. And trying to shove it open, although she stops pretty fast when it doesn't move due to your weight. Rather than try to push you out of the way, she opts to state flatly, "Robert, you know the rules. Thirty seconds, then I'm calling the cops." 

Footsteps recede, and you take a second to parse that statement. Then, "Dude...please tell me you're the reason they have rules about this." 

You didn't know that people with that skin tone could go that specific shade of bright red. Fuck, you just _totally_ missed an opportunity to bang mothman in a cafe bathroom. 

God fucking damn it.

* * *

Despite her suspicions that you and Grey (who you're struggling to think of by his actual name and not just, y'know, mothman) were fucking in her bathroom, the barista brings you possibly the best coffee you've had in at least eight months, made even better by the fact that it's no more than fifty percent coffee. The rest is cream, whipped cream, sugar, and what you think is maybe a blend of cinnamon and cloves. The result is like, the god tier version of a pumpkin spice latte. Fuckin' heaven. 

Grey watches you with that same small amused smile from when he decided to flip your equilibrium upside down by announcing his nature. It's the kind of look you want to see on a guy right before he tells you to strip down, get on your knees, and—

Bad D. This is a cafe. No sexy thoughts in the cafe. The barista will kick your ass. 

You take a too-large gulp of your drink, choke on it, immediately think of what else you'd like to be choking on, and start coughing. Grey helpfully removes the cup from your hand and not-quite-whacks you on the back, which _does not help_ because it means _mothman_ is touching you so you kind of forget to breathe—

Oh for fuck's sake. 

It takes you much longer than it should to get your dumbass self under control. Long enough that Grey loses his cute lil' smile and starts looking actually concerned. Why did you have to choose _this_ date to become legitimately too gay to function? 

Also, when did you start thinking of it as a date instead of just a meeting? Instead of a prelude to a hookup? Fuck, is now really the time to start getting mushy? Really? 

Your brain insists that this is _exactly_ the time to get mushy because _that_ is a _gorgeous_ guy and also mothman and if you don't at least make a move here you're _so_ going to regret it. 

As Grey tries to offer you a napkin and your drink, you groan and faceplant directly into the tabletop. From the concerned noise he makes, he doesn't think this is a reasonable reaction at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for: blood, combat, and death

Grey pays for his drink and for yours, smacking your hand gently when you try to go for your wallet. He puts a hand on your shoulder to steer you out the door, and you cannot fucking _believe_ the spark of excitement that ignites in your chest at that possessive lil' gesture. 

"We can go to my place—" he starts, and of fucking course your phone goes off right then. And see, normally you'd yank it out of your pocket, mute the damn thing or even turn it off, and go back to having your undivided attention on the guy in front of you, but it's Hal's ringtone. 

Hal's _emergency_ ringtone. 

Which he wouldn't use of there wasn't a good goddamn reason. 

"Fuck," you mutter. "Hang on one sec, okay?" When Grey nods, you hit the _accept call_ button and turn away from him as you raise the phone to your ear. "Hal, this better be—" 

" _Better be good, yes, D, I know this is basically a vacation for you._ " (Shit, it was that obvious?) " _Jake has a feeling._ " 

"Fuck." When Jake thinks shit's going to go downhill, he's almost always right. "He trance out, or...?" 

" _Not quite. You know how he gets when he's trying to control his oracle? He's been like that for almost an hour, D. Reading your cards, for most of it._ " 

"And?" 

" _The Tower comes up every time. What it's in conjunction with changes, but having a fucking disaster card in every drawing isn't exactly a good thing._ " 

"Disaster isn't the only meaning for that." 

" _Yes, but Jake says that's what it is this time._ " Hal's acquired that _why the hell are you arguing_ tone that's roughly equivalent to him outright calling you an idiot. " _Dirk had the bright idea of having him scry with the pendulum to see where you needed to be—_ " 

"And?" 

" _We did it with Jake's tablet and Google maps; the pendulum came down on where you're supposed to be checking out anyway, hard enough to crack the screen._ " 

"Ah. Fuck." You huff out a breath, pushing your shades up with your free hand to rub at your eyes. So much for doing the fun part of this trip first... "He get any other insights on what I'm going up against here?" 

" _No. I'll text you if he does, though._ " 

"Yeah. Tell him thanks from me?" 

" _Will do. Be careful, D._ " 

"Always am." 

" _Liar._ " 

"Hey, I'm still alive, right? It works. Talk to you later." 

You end the call before Hal can scold you any further for the way you play with the concept of caution, turning back to Grey. He's just standing there, arms crossed and face unreadable even to you, waiting patiently for whatever you're going to tell him. 

"I gotta go," you say, stashing your phone in your pocket. "I'm so fucking sorry, my kid's boyfriend's got a thing with divination and he says shit's gonna go down and this, this is my _job_ —" 

Grey steps closer and puts one finger on your lips, waiting for a second to see if you're going to keep trying to talk. (You don't. You have slightly more dignity than that.) 

"Don't tell me you hunt without backup," he says, and the fact that he's not just letting you ditch him in favor of a job somehow takes most of the crushing disappointment off your chest.

* * *

You drive and you talk at the same time, and Grey inventories your available weaponry as you fill him in. The fact that you don't actually have to tell him where you stashed any of it is somehow impressive; either he's good at knowing where the best places to conceal shit are, or you're obvious as fuck. Might as well assume the former. 

He doesn't take any weapons, though. Just checks each firearm and sets it down, lines the blades up so _you_ can choose. Which... "You know you can take what you need, right? I have, like, three backups for everything but the sword—" 

"You're sweet, but I think I'm prepared enough." Grey's eyes flick toward you as you pull the car off the road (probably on the list of things the rental company would prefer you didn't do) and a smile just _barely_ ghosts across his lips. (You find that more attractive than you really should, considering that you're probably about to drag this guy into a fight. God fucking damn it D, stop getting distracted by how _hot_ he is.) "Just don't cut and run if I have to shift." 

"Might run towards you. Dude, I don't think you get just how gay I am for mothman." 

The poor guy almost chokes, trying to stifle a laugh, and you grin like an idiot and scoop up your sword as you hop out of the car.

* * *

The woods are full of the scent of carrion and thorny shit. You're not totally sure whether it's blackberry vines or wild roses or what, and after the third time you have to stop and unhook the little bastards from your jeans (and skin) you don't really care. If you weren't fairly sure that you'd end up causing undue property damage, you'd be tempted to just start a goddamn brush fire, clear some of this out before you even tried to look for whoever or whatever you're here for. 

The fact that Grey just seems to slip past any obstacles like he repels thorns doesn't really help matters at all. Makes you feel like more of a dumbass, maybe. Why does it have to be woods and not, like, literally anything else? You're fine with any terrain that doesn't involve focusing on whether every little spot is safe to put your hand, this is just—

Grey grabs your arm and pulls you back right before you walk into a branch wrapped with—you guessed it—more fucking thorny vines. "Let me go first," he murmurs, pulling you back. 

Because you're a stubborn bitch, you try to resist and discover that the effort does absolutely nothing. Huh. "You don't know where we're going," you hiss at him, following as he ducks under the offending branch. 

"And you do?" 

"No, but—" 

"D, I've been hunting these woods since I hatched—" 

"You _hatched_?" 

"Is this really the time to talk about this?" 

"Fuck yes it is!" 

"...no." 

"But—" You're willing to argue, but you're distracted from that by the fact that the branch you just tried to swat out of the way has apparently decided it wants a taste of your blood. Grey stops to disentangle you, you shut up because you can't talk and hold still at the same time, and he unhooks the last curved thorn from your arm just as you hear the faint sounds of voices. 

From the way his head snaps up, Grey hears it too. "Time to divide and conquer?" he suggests, almost too soft for you to hear. 

"Good plan." It's too fucking close here to use your sword; you retrieve two of the knives from your back pockets, snapping them open and adjusting your grip until you find that sweet spot where the balance is as close to perfect as anything can ever be. "Careful, though, I don't know—" 

Fuck, he's gone. You took your eyes off him for maybe ten seconds, didn't hear a thing, and Grey's just _gone_.   
Okay. That works. Means he's not going to get spotted before you are, anyway. 

You stifle a sigh, and do your level best to be quiet as you move towards the voices you're hearing.

* * *

There's five of them, three girls and two boys, none of them older than maybe sixteen. From your spot behind a tree and some kind of bush, you can't get a very good look at their eyes, but every so often one straightens up and glances around and you catch a glimpse of inhuman luminosity. 

You have no fucking clue as to exactly what's got ahold of these kids, but you're willing to bet it's something old. You don't even know what makes you so sure of that; maybe it's the way that there's no hint of stiffness in their movements, even though the thing's controlling five kids at once, or the way that even brief glimpses of its eyes makes you feel like you're staring into a lunar abyss. _Why_ you know doesn't matter, not really. Neither does _what._

Fuck. There's five of them, you absolutely _cannot_ kill them—they're kids, you don't kill innocent people period but you _especially_ don't kill kids—but you do need to do _something_ before they find whatever the hell it is they're looking for. 

You're not really sure what that something is, but eh. You can work that out as you go. Not like planning was ever your strong suit. 

This is why Hal's on your ass about being careful. Because you do stupid shit like shoving your knives back in your pockets and diving out of cover, bodyslamming the closest kid—one of the girls, and you feel bad about that until she twists like she doesn't have a single fuckin' bone in her body and tries to latch onto your arm with teeth that're only human but still a goddamn _problem_. 

Before she can, you slam her down against the ground, hard. There's a brief second before her eyes roll back when you see the luminosity fade, and yeah, it's a relief to know that whatever's riding these kids can get knocked out of them this easy. 

Well, it's a relief until you feel something intangible slide into _your_ head. It recoils at the furious thought you send at it, though, and slips right back out again. The only problem is that it still has someone else to retreat you; as you jump back up to your feet, you see the other four kids focus on you, eyes brightening and mouths opening in perfectly-synched snarls.

Oh, shit. 

This is when Grey intervenes. No, this is when _mothman_ intervenes. 

You don't hear him coming and you don't see him until he's _there,_ somehow sliding into the halfassed circle the demon-ridden kids have gathered themselves into and yanking two of them off their feet. He doesn't really look like any depiction of mothman you've ever seen; you don't know what he looks like. Bigfoot with an extra set of arms and feathery antennae pressed flat to his head, maybe. When he turns to toss the kids away from you and grab for the other two kids, you see that he does have wings; they're just folded behind him, the subtly patterned membranes safer from being grabbed and torn. 

Holy fuck he is _magnificent._ Beautiful enough to make you freeze up for a second. 

Then the kid who's so far managed to evade Grey's hands lunges at you, the two he threw shake themselves off and lunge at _him_ , and you make the decision to fight now, gay later. 

And you're fighting for your life, that's for fucking sure. The guy doesn't move like anything human, too fast and brutal enough that you're leery of blocking blows rather than dodging them. There shouldn't be any finesse with him hitting as hard as he is, either, but logic doesn't fucking apply right now; each punch is targeted to hit where it'd hurt you most, and even the ones that you mostly deflect or dodge drive the breath out of your lungs, send pain spiking through your nerves like he's got blades rather than bare knuckles. 

You can handle it, though. You're not fuckin' dying, you can stall for another minute and try to figure out how to knock the kid out without pulling a knife—

His eyes flare white again, and once more. The light doesn't fade away this time, and his next attack is too fast to track, let alone dodge. You backstep anyway, trip over some rock or tree root or _something_ , and go down with his hands around your throat. 

Can't breathe. Don't need to breathe, not for thirty seconds at least. He's not got too much pressure on your carotid; you won't black out unless he shifts his grip, and you intend to struggle enough he won't do that. 

You've always functioned pretty damn well under pressure. Like, planning isn't your strong suit in part because you don't _need_ to plan. When you're in the right situation, your mind shuts down and something else takes over. Call it instinct, call it a higher power, call it whatever the _fuck_ you want. All you care about is that you know what to do. 

The kid probably assumes you're going to try to pry his hands off when you reach up for your own throat, but that's not on the agenda. What you actually do is get ahold of the chain around your neck and yank hard enough for the magnetic clasp to let go. 

His eyes flare one more time, just before you reach up and lock the chain around his neck instead. It's hard to get the binding word out with hands wrapped around your throat, but you manage it. 

You're not really sure whether it's the silver or the iron in the chain that blocks the demon inside the kid, but either way, his eyes go wide and horrified, brighter than the moon as he lets you go and reaches up to claw at his own throat instead. And yeah, if you give him a minute he'll break the damn thing, be able to escape the kid's body and flee or try to take you again—and it _could_ take you, you know exactly how much psychic pressure you can withstand and the thing inside the white light has more power than any mortal could stand against—but you don't give it the chance. 

Drawing the knife takes maybe a second and a half, flipping it open takes less than that. Driving it into the kid's throat, dead center and all the way to the base of the blade? That takes no time at all. And yeah, you thought his eyes were as wide as they could get, but you were wrong. His mouth opens as they widen further, but nothing comes out but the first trickle of blood, as you wrench your blade out of him. 

When he falls, you catch him. 

Your hands are wet. It's fucking _hot,_ because that's the thing about blood, it's body temperature. The wet heat soaks into your jeans as you settle on the ground with the kid's head in your lap, holding him and watching him struggle to breathe as the unnatural luminosity flickers in his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," you tell him, when his eyes go green rather than white. "Kid, I'm so fucking sorry." 

You don't know if he understands. There's not time to say it again, because in another minute or so there's no life left in his eyes, only white light. 

Then even that flickers out, and Grey reaches over your shoulder to close the kid's eyes. 

Oh. 

Yeah. Grey. 

You need to do something about Grey. You need to push all the flashbacks that're trying to make themselves the only thing in your head away and fucking _deal._

The kid's body is too fucking heavy to lift from this position, so you gently shift him off to stand up. God, you don't even _know_ what you're going to do with the body, you don't—

"D?" Grey puts his hands on your shoulders, pulls you around to look at him. "D. Look at me." 

"Yeah." You do look at him, for a second. Then you can't; your eyes slide off him, to one side, darting from the (hopefully) unconscious teenagers on the ground to the body at your feet to the—

...the bear. What the _fuck._

"Grey, how the hell—" You don't get any further than that, because the animal at the edge of the clearing rears up onto its hind legs, sniffs at the air, then drops down again and shambles over to within three feet of you, sniffing at the corpse on the ground. 

_Fuck._ You've never been so close to this kind of animal. It's, uh. Fuck. 

Grey lets go of your shoulder and turns to the bear, dropping to his knees to meet its eyes for a moment. Then he reaches down, unhooks your chain from the dead kid's neck, and holds it out to you. 

The movement isn't in the least reproachful, but you still flinch. The metal's stained red-black, it's your fault, and you. Yeah. No. You can't. 

And he doesn't make you make the decision on whether to take it anyway; he just closes his hand around the chain, shoves it in his pocket as he rises to his feet, and wraps an arm around your shoulders. "We're going." 

"I need to—the knife wound—when he gets found, they'll know—" 

Behind you, something crunches, an awful wet tearing sound that you know the meaning of without looking, and you shut up and let Grey pull you back through the woods, towards where you left the car.


	3. Chapter 3

Grey gently steers you away from the driver's side of the car, but he doesn't try to force you to cooperate when you balk at actually getting in, just stops and looks at you like he's waiting for direction. Which he is. You have to tell him what you're trying to do here, dumbass, you can't just freeze up now. Nope. He's not Dirk, he's doesn't already know that you either go on autopilot or fuckin' shut down when you fuck up. 

Okay. Shit. 

_You killed a kid._

Yeah, you did, but you need to keep functioning anyway.   
"Hello Kitty bag." From the way he stares at you, that's not enough info. "Uh. Backseat, there's a bag, got shit to clean up with. I got—" 

Yeah, okay. You don't actually need to say it; holding your bloody hands up is enough. Now that Grey actually knows what you're talking about, he would've probably just got the bag for you without the explanation, though; he's already pulling the door open, retrieving the bag in question and trying to unzip it. Not that you give him a chance, really; as soon as he's got it in his hands you take it _out_ of his hands, careful not to touch him, deliberately not paying attention to how there's instantly dark smears across the bright pink vinyl. It'll wipe off. You can get rid of that. It's fine. 

Fine. It's fine. 

The ugly maroon towel on top gets pulled out and spread on the front seat so you can get in without worrying about the blood on your jeans staining the rental. That's not a fun thing to explain, bloodstains on carseats. By the time Grey gets around to the driver's seat and gets it slid back far enough that he can actually sit down, you've got the peroxide out and open, fresh heat radiating off where you just dumped at least a couple tablespoons of it onto your lap. The heat on your hands is less; skin doesn't trap blood like fabric does. Rinses off almost easily. 

Are your hands shaking, as you wait for the peroxide to quit hissing and foaming? 

No. Definitely not. It's fine. 

"D," Grey says, and you realize that he's got the car back out on the road already when he reaches over and puts one hand on your shoulder. "Seatbelt, perhaps?" 

"Fuck that. Not touching anything in here; can't get blood on the car—" 

"We can have it cleaned." 

(Your eyes sting at his use of _we_. Fuck, you don't cry because you kill a fucking _kid_ , but you will because a guy implies he's sticking with you for the very immediate future? Bitch.) 

"Just—" Ouch. Your voice sounds too thick, almost painful; you swallow hard and fish the rag out of the Hello Kitty bag to wipe at the white foam on your jeans before you try to say anything else. "Just don't crash, right?" 

Grey makes a small, concerned sound. When you glance over at him—and it really is no more than a glance; you still can't meet his eyes—he holds out his hand, waiting patiently until you make the decision on what to do. 

What you do is switch hands with the rag and put your hand in his. And you blink to keep your sight clear when his fingers close around yours and squeeze gently. 

God, you shouldn't feel like this right now.

* * *

Grey doesn't take you back to the hotel, which is an understandable decision since you're a goddamn bloody mess with soaking wet pants right now. The place he takes you to is maybe a couple miles outside what you'd identify as the outer limits of this town, down a road that doesn't look like it'd lead anywhere, let alone to a good-sized house pretty much hidden in a stand of trees noticeably older than the rest of the forest you've seen so far. 

He lets go of your hand to get out of the car and replaces that contact with an arm wrapped around your shoulders as soon as you're on your feet. It makes the difference in his size and yours that much more obvious, and you don't even hesitate to lean against him. 

The guy smells like cinnamon. Makes you think of Egbert doing pies for Christmas, makes you think of holidays and kids and _fuck_ no, derail that train of thought right now. Don't think about your kids. (Dirk, at ten years old. Dave, at sixteen. Both of them, at any point between.) 

Fucking stop it. Think about the guy you're leaning on, the one you really came here for in the first place, if you're honest. The job was a side thing, no matter what you tell the kids. 

(Stop it!) 

Grey pulls you through the door, lets go of you to close it behind the two of you, and when he turns back around you reach up with both hands, grab the back of his head, and pull him down so you can reach to kiss him. 

If he resisted at all, there's no way you'd be able to do it. Grey's _big,_ fucking strong as hell even without taking his supernatural nature into account. (And you fucking love that.) Hell, even if he just didn't react to your efforts, you'd have to climb him like a tree to get what you want. 

But you touch him, get two fistfuls of his hair and don't even get the opportunity to pull because he's already leaning down, one hand on your shoulders and one cupping the back of your head as his lips meets yours. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ He tastes like cinnamon too, very faintly. He tastes like cinnamon, and his mouth's warmer than yours, and this makes shit better, makes it go away for a fucking moment even if it's not enough. 

When you let go of his hair and reach down to fumble with his pants, though, Grey lets you go. And it's not the good kind of letting go, not the kind that's justified by scooping you up and carrying you to wherever the fuck the bedroom is in this house, not the kind that's followed up with him shoving you up against a wall and ripping your shirt getting it off, not the kind where he pushes you to your knees and unbuckles his belt himself. 

This is the kind of letting go where he steps back, catches your hands when you reach for him again, and says, "No," even as he draws you back in. 

"No?" You want to fight. You want him to change his _goddamn_ mind, to give you what you want and take from you what you're offering. You want to be absolutely pissed that he won't let you use this as a way to feel something other than guilt. 

Somehow, you're not any of those things. Just...confused, almost painfully sad, and at the same time comforted by the warm cinnamony embrace he's wrapped you in. 

He doesn't tell you no when you reach up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, using that as leverage to haul yourself up far enough to wrap your legs around his waist as you close your eyes and drop your head down on his shoulder. No, all he does is shift his grip a bit to keep you steady, pull you up just a couple inches. 

You can tell when he changes. The cinnamon scent you're breathing in gets stronger and somehow sweeter, the fabric under your cheek is suddenly something softer—not fur, but tiny downy feathers—and Grey starts stroking your hair despite the fact that he's still holding onto your waist with both hands. 

Fuck, this is an opportunity to see mothman this close. Something once-in-a-lifetime, and you can't manage to roll your head over to look at him. 

"Dude, please," you mumble, and you feel him shake his head as he starts walking. "You won't fuck me 'cause I'm a hunter? Because I fucked up and killed him? Because—" 

"Because you're trying to be hurt." His voice is...different, in this form. Or not _different,_ but _more._ Like there's added registers in it now, beyond what a human larynx will support. "You want punishment."

God, you want to flip this around and make it about BDSM. "I want _you,_ Grey—"

"D." 

"—you wanted to fuck me, I—" 

"No. Not now." 

" _Please_ ," and yeah, you're begging, not in a hot way, in a _I can't fucking handle this_ way, and Grey just shakes his head and sits down without letting go of you or forcing you to pull away from him. He pulls you down with him as he lies down, until you're lying on his chest. 

And he won't fucking let you slide down far enough to grind down on him. He'll let you sit up, but you don't fucking _want_ to do that, you don't want to _leave,_ you want—

Fuck! All you wanted was a hookup and a wild goose chase of a job to cover it up, and _this_ is what you get? 

It's probably frustration that starts you crying like a little kid, but it's guilt that keeps the tears coming. Grey just lets you stay where you're at, making a wet patch on his feathery coat and breathing in cinnamon with every shaky inhale. 

On some level, you keep expecting Grey to get fed up with this. Push you off, tell you to get ahold of yourself, _something._ On some guilty fucked-up level, you _want_ him to. 

He doesn't. 

He's so...

Soft. Warm. Gentle. Patient. 

At some point you run out of both tears and energy. At some point, you fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up mostly because he's gone. Or at least, like, not right here with you. Under you. The bed's not quite as comfy to lay on as Grey is, nor as warm, and at some point that's just enough to rouse you. 

Like you do every fucking time you sleep in a bed that's not the one in your room at the safehouse, you almost roll off in the process of sitting up. _Almost._ Not quite. The bed's wide enough that you actually do manage to stay on, but the jolt of instinctive adrenaline in that moment when your body's convinced that you're falling does exactly what it's intended to do; you're definitely awake now.

You sit up, rake both hands through your hair, and do a once-over of your current physical, mental, and emotional state. In that order. 

Well, your jeans are gone. All your clothes are gone, actually; you cannot fucking _believe_ you slept hard enough for Grey to undress you and put you in what has to be one of his shirts. It's fuckin' huge on you, way more fabric than you really expected. Smells like cinnamon, too, enough so that you reach up to pull the neckline up into your face, take a deep breath. Something harder and less yielding than fabric pulls at your neck when you do that; when you pull the shirt down, you realize that Grey's clasped your chain around your throat again. He cleaned it, thank God; you don't think you could handle it if there was still blood on the fucking thing. 

Which brings you to the point where you need to examine how you actually feel. Not really a great thing to think about, but. Yeah. You gotta.

You feel...bad. Guilty. 

You killed a kid. Yeah, that happened. You killed a kid to keep the thing inside of him from getting out, and yeah, _maybe_ there would have been a better way to get around that. _Maybe_ you could've done shit differently, if you were your sister or Dave or somebody else with a different skill set. 

But you're you. And you did the best you could, and since you, Grey, and four out of five of the kids came out of yesterday alive, your best was good enough. 

Doesn't mean you don't still feel guilty. 

The quick fix for that is probably getting up and not sitting in an empty room by yourself, though. Time to go find Grey and figure out what to do next.

* * *

He's not even a little hard to find; you slip into a room that turns out to be the kitchen and Grey's leaning against the counter, frowning up at a clock on the wall. The frown disappears as soon as you step into the room, though; he looks over at you and _smiles_ and oh yeah you're still gay as fuck, that's a thing. 

"Hey," you say to him, because you suddenly don't know what the hell else _to_ say, and before you have to try to think about what else to say Grey steps over and leans down to kiss your forehead. 

Oh. Okay. Okay. 

He steps back again before you have a chance to wrap your arms around those broad shoulders and cling to him until you get a proper kiss, though. "Hey. I have your phone; I think your brothers filled your voicemail." 

"Ah, shit." Yeah, you probably should have called Hal before you passed out last night. "Yeah, I gotta—" 

Your phone, which is apparently on the counter a few feet away, goes off with the opening riff to one of Dirk's least favorite songs before you can finish talking. Grey scoops it up and passed it to you, asking "Did you find your things?" as he does, even though it's obvious that you did, since you're not still wearing his shirt. 

(You almost did just put a clean pair of jeans on and keep his shirt instead of changing, actually. In the end, practicality won out over comfort for once.) 

"Yeah, man, thanks for getting 'em from the hotel," you tell him, checking the caller ID even though there is literally one person you have that ringtone set to. Yep, it's Dirk. "One sec, alright?" 

Grey nods, you hit the connect button, and as you raise the phone to your ear your kid immediately says, " _Thank fucking god you're answering again—what happened?_ " 

"Uh..." Okay, you're so not going into detail right now. Nope. Not doing it. 

Dirk continues in your moment of hesitation, voice as level and calm as it only gets when he's worried about shit. " _If you say nothing happened, Hal and I are going to be in West Virginia in three hours, D._ " 

"Seems a bit unnecessary." 

" _Well, since you only lie when shit's exceptionally fucked, I think it'd count as necessary._ " 

"...okay then." 

" _And?_ " 

"Something happened." 

" _Dave told us that. He said you were fucked up badly enough that he could feel—_ " 

"I'm not fucked up now." (Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Grey mouthing something to the contrary. You elect to ignore him.) "I got some bruises, that's it." 

" _Are you really going to try to dodge the question?_ " 

"Yeah probably." 

" _I can and will set Rose on you._ " 

Fuck. 

"It was a demon," you tell him, and again Grey's shaking his head and trying to get you to lip-read whatever the fuck it was you actually killed but fuck it, _demon_ is a perfectly good catch-all term. "Like. The worst ones, the kind we—you know the kind, man, we deal with 'em way too fuckin' often, it's—" 

" _D. Bro. Hey._ " Dirk's got to be picking up on the distress that presents as dropped consonants and lengthened vowels, because you can hear him making an effort to force the concern he's feeling into his voice. " _Hal's booking you a ticket home right now. We can talk about it when you get back, if you can't do it now._ " 

"Have him get a flight tomorrow." You don't know why you say it. "Not today." 

" _What? Why?_ " 

"I—" _I'm here with someone and I want one fucking day to see if I can fix what I fucked up,_ you very nearly say. "I didn't make it over to Point Pleasant yet." 

" _Seriously?_ " 

"Yes, seriously, you called me like twenty minutes after I got here—" 

" _I'm giving the phone to Dave._ " 

Uh-oh. There's like a ninety percent chance that Dave's going to be more successful than Dirk at talking you into coming home. You should probably hang up, except if you do that there really _will_ be someone here to come pick you up in a couple hours. 

So you just sit through the small noises of Dirk handing the phone over, ignoring Grey's raised eyebrows and the implied query on how the convo's going. It's a couple seconds, maybe half a minute, and then Dave says, " _You trust whoever you're with?_ " 

Goddamn empath, peeking into your head even when you're like five states away. "Yeah, actually." 

" _Give him the phone. It's a him, right?_ " 

"Kid—" 

" _I'm not gonna fuck up your date or whatever, D._ " Dave sighs, and you can just imagine the look on his face right now, impatience and concern mixed up into something uniquely common to him when he's trying to reason with you. " _No embarrassing shit, no secrets, not gonna run him off, but Dirk's gonna start spiraling if we let him chase his tail trying to guess what happened yesterday._ " 

"Nothing happened," you protest out of pure reflex, and Dave snorts. 

" _Yeah, you didn't say that, because_ if you did _Hal would be booking me and him a flight up to come make sure you're okay. Which is stupid, 'cause you're not and you and me both know it. I can_ feel _you, D; yesterday something happened to you and I just about passed out on the floor from how awful you felt._ " 

"...shit." 

" _Yeah. I know you don't wanna tell me, but the guy with you, he was there too, right? All I want to do is ask him—_ " 

"No." You don't know why you don't want Dave talking to Grey. Maybe because you're a selfish bastard, maybe because you don't want Grey asking anything else about your kids, using up the little time you have left with him that way. "Just—fuck. A kid died. Teenager, got possessed by a demon and I—" 

Your voice cracks and you stop to swallow hard and blink until everything's a little less wavery and in the silence you can hear the soft noise of Dave exhaling slowly over the connection. 

" _Fuck,_ " he says, and his voice ain't quite steady either. " _D, it's not your fault._ " 

"How much do you actually—" 

" _You don't get quite this hung up when it's just a death, so yeah. Just 'cause it's your finger on the trigger—_ " 

"I—used a knife." 

Dave goes very quiet for a second. Then he says, " _You need to come home._ " 

"Kid, I—" 

" _If it was me, you'd say the same thing. We both got pretty much the same mental shit, D, and now ain't a time you should be alone_." 

"I'm not." 

" _You're not going back to your hotel room and sitting there until Hal texts you to get to the airport before you miss your flight?_ " 

"Uh—hang on." You lower the phone, put your thumb over the mic, and ask Grey, "If I tell my kid that I'm staying the night with you, am I gonna be lying? Like yeah, I know I fucked up our date, I fucked up everything—" 

Grey's shaking his head, a small stifled chuckle making its way out of him. "D, that wasn't even in the top ten of worst first dates. The next one will be fine. And it'd be a bit stupid for you to haul all your things back to the hotel after I brought them here, wouldn't it?" 

You have to take a second to parse the whole _next date_ thing. Hey, there's that happy lil' spark in your chest again. 

"Yeah, Dave, I'm staying with somebody." 

" _Okay. Hal's gonna text you with the time for your flight tomorrow._ " Thank fucking god, he's not going to push any harder on that. " _Love you, bro._ " 

Dave doesn't always end calls like that. Only when he knows you need it. Makes your eyes start filling up again. "Love you too, Dave. Talk to you later." 

Grey tilts his head questioningly as you hang up and shove the phone down in your pocket, stepping closer as you wipe at your eyes with your free hand. "Are you—" 

He shuts up when you wrap your arms around his waist and smoosh your face into his chest. The fact that he doesn't even hesitate to return the embrace somehow fucks up your currently nonexistent emotional equilibrium worse than it already was. 

Even when you start shaking from the effort to not start sobbing, Grey just holds you, but after a minute or two, he asks the question you interrupted again. 

"D, are you alright?" 

And yeah, your answer is honest, if really fucking muffled. "Yeah, no. Not really." 

You expect more questions in response to that, but Grey just says, "...ah," and shifts his grip to pull you in to lean against him even more heavily, one hand staying on your back and the other coming up to stroke through your hair. 

...fuck, can you just stay here forever?


	5. Chapter 5

You don't actually stay there in his arms forever. (Unfortunately.) But you are the one to pull back, half of you disappointed that Grey doesn't try to keep you close. Then again, it's not like he knows you'd be happy to just, like, stay where you were for another couple hours...

Eh. At least you got this much affection from him, right? Right. Shit's a bit better than it was before. 

So yeah, you pull back and Grey ruffles your hair absently before turning away and snagging a towel off a hook on the wall, using it as a potholder to remove a tray from the oven. Upon closer inspection, the lumps on it are some kind of pastry. Maybe scones. 

Grey sets the tray down, scoops up one of the scones(?) and tosses it back and forth from one hand to the other, frowning slightly. (You file _mild heat resistance_ on the list of powers he has. Can't be heat immunity; he had to use the towel to get the tray out.) 

"D," Grey says, and you realize that he's said your name at least once before. And here you are, just staring at him like a dumbass. 

"Yeah, sorry." Ah, shit. Attention problems? Really? You should be used to this shit by now. 

"It's fine. Here." And he holds out the scone to you, waiting until you reach over and take it out of his hand. "White chocolate raspberry?" 

" _Fuck_ yes—do you bake for all the guys you don't quite sleep with?" 

"Technically, I did sleep with you." 

You almost choke on your mouthful of warm sweet deliciousness at the combination of that statement and the way he delivers it, the little upward quirk at the corner of his mouth like he's trying not to laugh. Once you get over that you just glare at him, not even bothering to hurry up and swallow before you answer him. "You know what I meant, dumbass." 

"I cook for everyone," he says, and leans down to kiss your forehead. "But don't think that doesn't make you special, _uwoduhi_." 

You have no idea what he just called you; it isn't even a language you recognize. Doesn't really matter, though, because you definitely understand the affection in his tone. It's enough that you feel your face go red, and you instinctively take as large a bite of the scone as you can manage so you have an excuse to not answer. 

Grey laughs, leaning back against the counter. "So you go home tomorrow?" 

Shit, now you can't talk. Okay then. Grey seems okay with waiting, though, even if it takes you the better part of a minute to be able to open your mouth without risking the possibility of sucking crumbs down your airway. 

"Yeah, my kids—they're not kidding about coming up here to get me if I don't." You take a breath, breaking the quarter-scone left in your hands into two pieces, then four. "Which is, you know. A good thing, maybe. Right now at least." 

"It is." Okay, simple agreement wasn't what you expected of him. "You were going to Point Pleasant?" 

"Yeah, I gotta buy some—" 

Now is the moment when your brain brings up the memory of Dave calling _find the dude and bring him back down here!_ when you asked him what he wanted from the stupid lil' tourist shops. The look on Grey's face when you start laughing is _priceless._

* * *

He drives you. You don't ask him to—fuck, you don't even ask him to come along, partially because he doesn't give you time to, the minute he confirms that you've got plans it's understood that he's part of them—but _fuck_ are you glad you're not the one behind the wheel. This way, you can ramble at him, talk with your hands almost as much as you do out loud, fidget and let out at least a little of the stress you're still holding through physical motion. 

This means that you tell Grey about a bunch of shit, though. Mostly about the kids. How your family's been hunters since basically forever, how these couple generations specifically have had more run-ins with the kind of demons that specialize in possessing mortals. 

Yeah. Not the best idea, because you very nearly just dissolve into a sobbing Strider puddle, but on the other hand, talking calms you down enough to keep it together and move on to Dave. Actually, talking about the shit that Dave went through almost a decade ago is the only thing that gets Grey to take his eyes off the road; when you mention Scratch, his head snaps around as he focuses on you, eyes wide and surprised with ruby facets glimmering in their depths even though they stay human for now. 

" _Doctor_ Scratch?" 

"Yeah, man, if Kurloz hadn't been kinda on our side he would've—" 

"You worked with the Speaker to the Dead." It's kind of a question, you think; he's just too stunned to get any tone other than flat disbelief. 

"Not really worked with him, no—he wanted Scratch dead and Dave—"

" _You_ were the one who did that?" 

"Nah, Dave did—" 

"But your line. Your family. Hunters, humans—" 

"Well, a human and a demon. Karkat and Dave." Grey just stares at you, until you feel the need to point out, "Uh, Grey, the road—" 

He blinks, then seems to remember that he's driving, spitting out what you're guessing is an expletive as he turns his attention back to the road just in time to navigate properly around a curve. 

Somehow you manage to not get on that subject again for the rest of the drive. You think it might be safer that way.

* * *

Okay, you forgot how much fun it is to go shopping with somebody as a date. There's just...something about making the guy you're with help you make decisions on what to buy. The last time you did this you were probably nineteen, dragging Sum into every changing room to make him blush and stammer at the sight of you in the outfits you'd bought from the last store and claimed were for Roxanne. Looking back, it's a fucking miracle the two of you didn't get caught and thrown out of any of the stores you were fooling around in. 

God, that was such a long time ago. This is different, too; this time you're just getting Grey to pick out the best shirts for Dave and Hal, shooting down his idea to buy the largest mothman plushie for Davesprite purely because its taller than you are (not taller than him, though) and you have no idea how to get it on the plane without like, buying another ticket for the damn thing. 

Plus, if you bought that one, you might not be able to hang on his arm as comfortably as you are, and no way are you forfeiting that. Davesprite gets the approximately infant-sized mothman, and if he's not happy with it as a new addition to his nest you'll just get him the big one next time you're up here. 

(Which should be pretty damn soon. You want to come back already, and you're not even gone yet.) 

You finally find a sweatshirt that Dave should find satisfactory—literally the only red one in the whole shop; exactly what the _fuck_ do these people have against the best color?—and let go of Grey just because it's kind of necessary that you put the shit you've bought so far in the car. He texts you when you're halfway through stashing everything in your bag, suggesting that you meet him by the statue. 

Even though you didn't actually get yourself a souvenir yet, you text him back that you'll be there in a couple minutes. Look, you got a _date_ with mothman, and the possibility (probability) of another one; you might as well wait until you can say you've been there _and_ done that before you get the t-shirt.

* * *

Of course, when you walk up to him in front of the statue that absolutely does _not_ look like mothman, Grey smiles and loops a scarf that he had to have just bought around your neck, flipping the ends in front so you can see the applique there. 

Okay, that looks more like mothman. 

You grin at him, then step back, taking a more critical look at the beautiful monstrosity in front of you. It's big, shiny, and...

"Dude, your statue is _definitely_ a bottom." When Grey just groans and shakes his head, you grab his hand and circle around to the other side, pointing at the obvious evidence. "C'mon, it totally is! Look at the ass!" 

"Are you. Are you taking a picture of the statue's ass." 

"Yes." You center the ass in question carefully, take the pic, and send it to Hal before you look up at Grey again. "Yours is better, don't worry." 

"Would that be because you're more interested in what's attached to it?" 

"As in, do I still want your dick?" Score; you made him splutter again. _Cute._ While he's still making noises like he can't quite decide what words to respond with, you pull him back around to the front, far enough forward that you can get a selfie of you and him with the statue in the background. 

Well, you _could._ If he wasn't so goddamn big. "Grey, lean down a lil'?" 

He does. You sling an arm over his shoulders, pulling yourself up just a little as you wait for the phone's camera to focus, and he puts one hand on your back, steadying you.

_It'd be a cute pic if you kissed him on the cheek,_ that little voice in your head whispers, and this is one impulse you can give in to instantly. When you turn your head, though, you find that Grey's apparently had the exact same idea. 

You look into those surprised brown eyes for a second; then you close your eyes, hit the button, and kiss him all in the same heartbeat. When the phone beeps to tell you that it's ready to take another pic, you just drop it, wrapping your arms around Grey and letting him take almost all of your weight. 

This isn't your first kiss with him, but you are _so_ going to lie and say it is.

* * *

You sleep with Grey, but sleep is all you do. If he gave you one single reason to try to get him to fuck you, it might be a different story, but...yeah. He's sweet, he kisses you again more than once, but he doesn't try anything. 

Somehow you're not disappointed. This isn't your only chance, after all.

* * *

While you're waiting at the airport, you delete the dating app off your phone right after you finish putting the pics of you and Grey in the folder that Hal doesn't look in when he's going through your phone. (The kids don't get to know about this. Not yet.)

* * *

The second you open the front door, Dave basically tackles you. That's the best word you can think of for it; a very gentle tackle, him appearing out of you don't know where and wrapping his arms around you, latching on like he's ten years old instead of twenty-something, not loosening up even a little until you drop your bag and hug him back. 

That doesn't really take more than maybe three seconds, if course. You need this shit more than he does. 

"Dirk's asleep," he says, before you can ask. "Dumbass crashed about when you texted to say you were getting on the plane—" 

"Yeah, let him sleep. I'm okay, Dave, calm down." 

Dave pulls back to arm's length, pushing his shades up to study you carefully. "...huh." 

"'Huh?' What's that supposed to mean?" 

"You _are_ almost okay. More than I thought you were gonna be." His head tilts to one side, red eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And you smell like cinnamon." 

There is a one hundred percent chance you go bright red at that statement, innocuous as it is. "Do not." 

"Yeah you do! Karkat—" 

"Nope, we're not bringing the demon into it—" Except he really is going to; Karkat seems to materialize behind you, stepping closer with a grin and inhaling as you yelp and scoop up your bags, trying to get out of range. "Fucker!" 

"That's cinnamon," he confirms, and you flip him the bird before unzipping your bag and tossing the sweatshirt at Dave. 

"Both of y'all fuck off with your spidey senses, alright?" Karkat catches the stuffed mothman neatly before it can bounce off Dave's head, and you huff and flip him the bird again. "I'm calling Rose, you two order pizza for after, alright?" 

When Karkat nods, you haul your bag over your shoulder, heading to your room for the skype therapy session that you know is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word Grey calls D translates to _beautiful/pretty_ , from Cherokee!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i know this skips a chapter, dw about it)

Yeah, you're handling the long-distance shit great. Perfect. This is good. You're not having any trouble at all. 

You're so fucking bad at lying, even to yourself. And even though though you have fucking _rules_ about treating stress with alcohol, sometimes you don't really follow them.

* * *

(Posted on YouTube at approximately 2:30 AM.) 

( _From the second D turns the camera on and settles in the chair in front of it, it's pretty damn obvious he's drunk. Contrary to the occasional videos he's posted in this shit, he's not all that happy about being drunk either. Actually, it's a legitimate question whether his bloodshot eyes are totally from the alcohol._ ) 

"...fuck, hey, this fucker _is_ on. Damn." 

( _The camera bounces when he taps it, unsurprisingly. The movement is somewhat unsettling. Thankfully, he only does that once before sinking back in his chair and tipping his head back to regard the ceiling._ ) 

"Y'all better be _asleep._ Hal's gonna fuckin'...delete this vid the fuckin' second I post it, y'know? Wipe the stupid shit I say off the goddamn map, right? I got good kids. I got _good_ kids and I'm a fucking _idiot,_ 'cause I fucked up.

"I fucked up. I _fucked_ up." 

( _D tips his chair back on two legs for just a second, then lets it drop, the momentum snapping his head back up to make vague eye contact with the camera. He doesn't seem very capable of tracking a stationary object at the moment._ ) 

"I found a _guy._ A _hot_ guy. Like, it's fuckin'...you get those fuckin' dating profiles to hook up, right? It's sex, it's fun, it's—you know what's fucked up? The fuckin'—the fuckin' moment I shoulda known I was gonna end up in over my head? I shoulda known I was screwed when I wasn't, y'know. Fuck. When he didn't." 

( _D shakes his finger at the camera, obviously convinced that what he's saying makes sense and is not at all confusing._ ) 

"He didn't wanna fuck me. Which, yeah, I fuckin' killed somebody, right? Right? He saved my fuckin' life, I think, don't you tell me I woulda been fine doin' that shit on my own. Fuckin' demon woulda ate me for breakfast. I know _that_ ; 'm not fuckin' delusional. He saved my life and he just, he just. Let me fuckin' _sleep._

"And y'know what? That was a fuckin' good thing. Like I thought that was good _then_ , y'all, my horny sad ass fuckin'—curled up with this guy and went yeah, I like this, who gives a fuck about sex, and have I ever fuckin' said that when I fucked up an op—an opparty—goddamnit, a sex thing?" 

( _This is what you get for trying a five-syllable word when you can't stand up straight, D._ )

"I shoulda known right fucking then, but _no._ My dumb gay ass figures it out _six fucking months_ in, when I'm tryin' to figure out how the _fuck_ to get up there in the next two weeks without tipping the kids off because he's—god, I dunno but my kids don't know about him, right? What if he doesn't _want_ 'em to know? He's fuckin'—what if mothman don't wanna meet the goddamn family? I can't ask him to come here and ditch the cryptid-y shit and I wanna just—ditch everything and go up there and _stay,_ y'all don't get how ba—how bad I want him, I—" 

( _D stops talking and pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and shifting until he can fit himself in the chair. It looks mildly precarious; this isn't what this poor piece of furniture was made for. The position also mostly hides his face, but the way his voice keeps breaking doesn't really leave much doubt that he's almost in tears._ ) 

"...do y'all know, like, how many guys I've dated? Girls too, fuck, there's be—been some—fuck, doesn't matter but so fuckin' _many_ , okay, and it was _fun_. It's a fuckin' _game_ almost, like it's not and that's a fuckin' shitty thing to say but Summ 'n Egbert 'n Serket, they got it, we were serious about shit while it lasted but not—never like _that._ We always fuckin' knew that shit wasn't gonna be forever, okay? It wasn't, it was—just _sex_ with the ride or die shit at—at the same time—oh god _damn_..." 

( _He trails off and curls up a little bit more, ducking his head down enough that his voice comes out significantly mode muffled. Still understandable, though; Hal hooks up all the tech in this house, and he uses quality mics._ ) 

"...don't think I like it. Not—being in love, 'cause I'm gonna guess that's what this shit is. Being _away._ I miss him and it _hurts_ like some asshole—like some asshole's pounding a goddamn stake into my chest and I—I _need_ him, I can't fuckin' have him, I can't have him 'cept once a fuckin' goddamn month or some shit and I—" 

( _D makes a choked-off noise and just goes silent for maybe thirty seconds, taking a series of breaths that don't get any less ragged._ ) 

"...I want him. I'm home right fuckin' now, this is home and it don't feel like home, all I want is to go home to _him_.

"God, I fucked up so bad fallin' in love like this. So _fuckin'_ bad." 

( _After another second D uncurls from his miserable ball, leaning over to poke at the keyboard for a minute or so; it takes him that long to work out how to stop the video. The poor guy's crying the whole time, right up to the second the camera cuts out._ ) 

(This video is up for about ten minutes before it's removed. It gets three views and one comment. The comment is not read before the video's deletion.)

* * *

"D, c'mon." 

Somebody pulls at your shoulder. You whine at them and roll as far away as you can get before you bump into something...the desk chair, you're guessing from how it shifts when your arm hits it. 

Ah. You're on the floor. Cool. Awesome. Great. 

"Come on, we both know you'd rather be up on the bed—" 

"Fuck _off_ , Dirk." 

"Do I need to pick you up?" 

"No. Lemme lie here. 'N be sad." 

Somewhere above you, Dirk huffs out an irritated-sounding sigh. At least he's quit trying to get you up, opting instead to just rub gently at your shoulder as if that's gonna be any more effective in convincing you to do what he wants. 

It won't, but the contact feels good. Better'n him trying to haul you up. 

"You've been lying there being sad for six hours," he points out after a couple seconds. 

"Lyin' here being unconscious, dumbass. Y'all been watching me?" 

"Of course we watch you; when you're not hungover or drunk you know it's a very fucking good idea for somebody to keep an eye on you when you are." 

"Mhm." Okay, time to roll over onto your back rather than your face, crack an eye open and look up at Dirk. Shit, Davesprite's in here too, perched up on the desk and watching you like you're some fascinating species of prey animal. "Oh shit, 'sprite—" 

He hops down when you hold out your arms, grabbing a blanket off the bed and nestling next to you. Alright, this is better. Much better. 

Dirk sighs. "Didn't we have an agreement here, Davesprite?" 

"Yeah, but the agreement sucked, so I'm gonna ignore it." The cockatrice punctuates that sentence with an almost cooing caw, pulling the blanket up over his and your heads and refolding his wings to half-cover you like another warmer and feathery blanket. "I'll get him up in like...an hour." 

" _Won't_." 

"Shh, D. I gotta tell _him_ I will." 

Dirk just sighs again, but a second later he flips the lights back off on his way out.

* * *

Davesprite gives you slightly more than an hour before he makes you sit up and look at him for maybe thirty seconds or so. You're not all that sure how his innate magic works, but he definitely manages to do _something_ that makes it significantly less painful to have your eyes open and move at all. 

You feel better. 

"You're my favorite kid." 

He snorts and puts his shades back on, reaching up to snag your shades off where you apparently left them last night and handing them over to you. "I thought that was Hal?" 

"Him too. You and Hal and Dirk and Dave and D Jr and Seb and—" 

You only stop because Davesprite's making those chirpy lil' giggles, shaking his head. "You don't have a favorite." 

"You're all my favorites, shut up." You finish that sentence off by sliding your shades on and shooting the cockatrice a bright smile and double finger-guns. He doesn't smile back, just tilts his head and regards you thoughtfully. "...okay, what?" 

"The video from last night. The one you posted." Davesprite shrugs and scoots closer to you, squirming up under your arm until you wrap it around him and squeeze gently. "Dirk's _so_ gonna do his halfassed version of talking to you about it once he figures out you're not hungover." 

"Goddamnit." That's literally the last thing you want to do right now; like, you don't recall whatever the fuck you said but you remember the crushing feeling of being alone that made you go for the camera to get some lil' bit of it out. There's really only one topic you would've talked about, which means you're going to have a hard time convincing your kids that you're not having issues with your current relationship. "Can we like, just pretend I _am_ hungover?" 

"Nope. You're stuck with this, bro." The sound that he makes between that statement and the next is damn near subsonic, so low-pitched you feel it more than hear it. How the fuck can someone this small make a noise like that? "Besides, when you end up crying on the floor until you fall asleep, you _need_ to talk about it." 

"Fuck no I don't—"

"You'd make me or Dirk or Dave talk about it," he points out, and you can tell from his little smile that he fucking _knows_ you don't have a comeback for that one. 

Well, you do. It's just not logical or valid, and you may have picked it up from Hal's habit of using it on Dirk. "Bitch." 

Davesprite just laughs and scoots away from you to get to his feet. Since he's just gonna pull on you until you cooperate, you follow suit and let him lead you out of the room. 

Well, he leads you to the door. Then the goddamn alarms go off. 

"Shit!" Roxy and Rose spent weeks working on the wards around the house, figuring out how to set them to sound the alarm if and only if lines were crossed by demons who weren't the ones who frequent the safehouse anyway. This shit doesn't go off by accident; the Vantases and Kurloz ain't gonna trip the fucker. 

Something's here. 

From the high pitch of the tone ringing through the hall, it's something that can definitely fuck up your day. 

You twist your hand out of Davesprite's grip and warn him, "Stay _here_." Predictably, he does that for all of three seconds when you step away from him before he's back at your side, pulling his shades off and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. "Goddamnit, Davesprite—" 

"Shut up, you know I'm a fucking asset. Now move it, big bro." 

You comply with that demand. Of course you do.

* * *

Karkat's over at the window; Dave steps in front of you to block you from joining him. When you frown and open your mouth to complain, he nods at where Dirk is hunched over a laptop at the table, Hal not-quite-literally hovering. "Kat heals faster'n you do if the dude decides he's gonna make a problem—" 

"Yeah, dude, but I wanna see—" 

"Cameras, D. Cameras. Dirk has 'em." Dave opens his mouth to keep talking, then winces as the alarm pauses for a second and then starts again. "Guys, I'm picking echoes of that up from all of you, turn it the fuck _off_ —" 

"Shit," Hal mutters, and you turn around just in time to see him reach over Dirk's shoulder, deftly evading Dirk's automatic attempt to smack him in order to hit a quick sequence of keys. 

The alarm dies down. Your ears are still ringing. 

Wait, that's your phone...where the hell _is_ your phone?

Okay, so finding the phone actually ranks higher on the instinctive priority list than checking out the current threat, for some reason. Your momentary glimpse of the laptop's screen shows you that Dirk ain't actually getting much out of his cameras anyway; the display's just a vague mass of color, some kind of glitch you haven't seen before. 

Magic related. Almost definitely magic related. Okay stop looking at it and find the damn phone. 

...and it's in the cabinet with the spices. What the fuck. As you extricate it from between the pepper and the chili powder, Hal huffs and asks, "Karkat, you got any more of an update than Dirk does?" 

"I can't fucking help it that that asshole fritzes out cameras—" 

"Not actually trying to attack _you_ here, brother dearest—" 

Karkat, thankfully, doesn't actually wait for this argument to either escalate or resolve itself. "He's still just standing there. He's got something...fuck if I know what it is, the idiot's standing the wrong fucking way for me to see..." 

"Yes, but does it look like a weapon."

"Hal, what part of 'I can't see' can you not fucking understand?" 

You're not doing great at answering the phone. Actually, it just stopped ringing. There's a second's pause—enough for you to see the missed call notification pop up, recognize it as Grey's number—and then the text notification chimes. 

Also Grey's number. A picture, and five words. 

_is this not ur house_

It is your house. 

That's a picture of your house. A _recent_ picture of your house, because that splash of green paint is from some shit John pulled two days ago, right before him and Jake headed over to Jade's place—

You take an embarrassingly long time to put the pieces together. Maybe ten seconds. When you do, you just drop the fucking phone and dash for the door, and yeah, Dave grabs for your arm and Karkat steps in front of you but _fuck_ , you're so not stopping. You make to the door, out the door, and as you just fucking hurl yourself at the familiar figure standing there on the lawn you hope to fuck that he expected this because if he didn't you're both gonna end up on the ground— 

Grey catches you, somehow. Despite the fact that you're fully airborne and have a good amount of kinetic energy on your side, he only staggers back a single step when you slam into him, and instantly wraps you up in one of the most welcome embraces of your life. 

"Sweetheart—" 

"Holy shit, babe, holy _shit,_ how the hell—how are you _here_ , oh my god—" 

God, you forget how easily he can pull you up half-off your feet. How you can't bear to keep talking when he kisses you. How you can't reach his fucking face when he straightens back up. 

"Noo, no no no, come back—" 

"I'm not going anywhere, D, but I think your kids might be about to try to stab me." 

Oh. Fuck. 

You do not let go of Grey, but you do hook one arm around the back of his neck and half-turn to check on who's watching you freak the fuck out over your boyfriend. As it turns out, Hal's the only one who's actually made it out the door. And yes, he has a knife. It looks like one of Dirk's; you recognize the bright-on-dark etching from the set you gave him for his birthday last year.

Hal doesn't seem all that ready to use it, though. It's just...hanging from one hand, as he stares at Grey with an expression best described as _utter amazement._

"Knife down, Hal." 

"Oh. Yeah, I suppose I can't stab _him._ " 

"Stop undressing my boyfriend with your eyes! You got your own!" 

"Can you fucking blame me? I mean, I see why you've been pining for the past three months; he's _amazing._ " Hal grins and tosses the knife to Dirk as he steps outside; you feel Grey tense and then relax again as Dirk catches it and makes it disappear into his hip sheath. "Were you scared we were going to steal him?" 

"...no." Grey is shaking slightly from his attempts to not laugh, so you sigh and amend that to, "Okay, maybe a little. Babe, don't _laugh_ at me, _kiss_ me—" 

"Both," he suggests, and proves that he can definitely manage both.

For a good long stretch of time, too. You're pretty sure he only pulls away so _you_ can breathe. 

Which is good, because that first breath is a fucking sob. Grey's face goes concerned, and you don't really address that at all because gay brain is _insisting_ that now is the perfect time to just latch onto him and start bawling into his shirt about how much you missed him. The kids are gonna tease you over this later and you don't even care, because there's a very good chance that they'll be teasing Grey at the same fucking time. 

Fuck, you missed him. You missed him so fucking much. 

"I love you," you mumble into Grey's shirt, and he chuckles and leans down to kiss the top of your head since you ain't letting go even if it means you get another kiss. 

"I love you too." 

Okay. You're officially nonfunctional for the near future now.


	7. Chapter 7

"D," Dirk points out, after maybe a solid minute of you hanging onto Grey and mumbling endearments into his shirt, "you do know that you can ask your boyfriend to come in. Assuming he needs to be invited." 

"Grey ain't a vampire, dumbass." Damn, you guess you have to let him go. For a minute, at least. You _could_ whine at him to carry you inside, but yeah, nah, let's keep a lil' dignity in reserve to give up at a later date, right? "C'mon, babe." 

(The fact that he's obviously reluctant to let you pull away, even if it's just enough to take his hand and pull him towards the door? That sends a warm surge up through your chest. He missed you too.) 

"Since D's distracted ass can't focus long enough to remember what introductions are for, I guess that's my job now." Hal pulls the door open and grins at you, stepping to one side. "Not that I blame him, honestly. Anyway, I'm Hal, the less hot one is Dirk—" 

"Fucker." 

"Oh, my apologies. The less hot one with a dirty mouth, he's Dirk. The—" 

You pull Grey through the door, and Hal doesn't get to finish his sentence because several things happen at basically the same time. 

Number one, Karkat makes a choked sound and stumbles back a couple steps from where he's standing at the window, grabbing at the wall for support. That bleeds into thing number two, because when something's fucky with Karkat you automatically check what's wrong with Dave. 

This time, it's that he's got a fucking _terrified_ look on his face and a fucking sword in his hand—where the hell was that? Does everyone other than you keep track of where in the house weapons are stashed? Fuck, where it was doesn't matter, because Dave is going to fucking stab your boyfriend with it—

Thing number three is that Davesprite shouts, "Dave, _no_!" and darts to Dave's side, seizing his wrist and jerking hard enough to spin him halfway around. For a second you don't think he's gonna give up the weapon, either, and you're fucking _praying_ that he's not fucked up enough to hurt Davesprite. 

Stupid thing to think, because what actually happens is that Davesprite caws and claws at Dave's arm with his free hand. The sword clatters to the floor, you see thin streaks of blood on pale skin, and then Dave turns tail and fucking runs for it. 

A door slams. You're guessing the door into the kitchen; that's closest. 

"Ah, fuck—Davesprite, you okay?" 

"I'm fine. He didn't even try to hurt me. Karkat?" 

The demon's on his knees when you look over, shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears. He's got that frustrated blank look that says he's trying and failing to get inside Dave's head, and instead of answering the implied question about whether he's okay he focuses on Grey, teeth showing sharper than they need to as he speaks. "How the _fuck_ do you know him?" 

"Dude, why the hell would Grey—" 

"The man he called his brother tried to kill me." Grey interrupts you like you didn't even try to say anything. "It—was a while ago." 

"No fucking shit, the asshole's been dead for like twelve years—the fuck do you mean, Bro tried to kill you? Are you _serious_? You never told me that!" 

"I didn't realize it was him?" Grey sighs and runs one hand through his dark hair, still staring after Dave. "He was...younger. And the odds are _ridiculous,_ not every blond hunter is related to _you_ , right?" 

"The jury's still out on that one but it's a fair fucking assumption!" You kind of want to ferret out more details on this shit...but yeah, there's more important issues right now. Like, y'know, Dave. "Any chance I can go talk to him, Karkat?" 

"I don't fucking know— _fuck_!" Karkat finishes that sentence off with a snarl that has Davesprite darting behind Grey. Good to know that he's already seeing the big guy as a potential shield...

...or maybe this is more about the ability to get as high as he can, because the cockatrice spreads his wings and _jumps_ , getting that little height boost that lets him get ahold of Grey's shoulders and pull himself up. And Grey lets him do it, too; if anything he holds himself just a bit more still until Davesprite's safely settled on his shoulders. 

Alright, those two are gonna get along great. 

"C'mon, Karkat." When he doesn't move, you step over and offer him a hand up; takes him a good few seconds to accept it. "Grey, uh..." 

"Stay in here, I know. Tell him I'm sorry?" And he is sorry; you can read a painful amount of guilt on the poor guy's face.

"Babe, believe it or not you ain't the first person to trip one of my kids' triggers. He's not gonna hate you for it." Even if Karkat huffs at the delay, you have to step back to Grey's side, reach up and put a hand on his shoulder to pull him down for a quick smooch. "Be back in a bit." 

As you turn away again, Dirk asks, "So...if you're not a vampire, can we get a hint on what you _are_?"

* * *

Dave actually isn't the only one in the kitchen; Seb's in Hal's spot up on top of the fridge, blue eyes wide, shocked, and fixed on Dave. Damn, you guess the youngest kids ain't as used to shit like this as you are; by the time Dirk and Roxy finished working out their bodies, you'd all pretty much figured out the best ways to avoid this kind of episode. 

"He's gonna be fine, Seb," you tell the kid, stepping over to look up at him. Karkat can handle Dave a hell of a lot better than you can; might as well let them have space for a minute. "You wanna come down, or nah?" 

Seb cocks his head to one side, one hand coming up to push one of the bunny ears that Kanaya sewed on to all his favorite hoodies out of his face. "I'm not stuck." 

"Hey, Jr got stuck up there. You could too." 

"Nope. Scoot?" 

You scoot. Or at least, you take a step back, and apparently that's good enough because Seb just fucking _dives_ off the fridge. Like, you have absolutely no idea how he manages to flip himself midair and land in a way that lets him bounce right back to his feet and grin at you, instead of just smashing his head on the tile. 

"Told you." 

"Yeah, you told me, you snarky lil' brat." Fast as he is, he can't quite dodge you when you go to push his hood down and ruffle his fluffy white-blond hair. "Hey, you wanna go say hi to my new boyfriend?" 

"Oh!" The bunny ears on his hood almost seem to perk up as he grabs the hood itself and pulls it up again. "Really?" 

"Yeah, dude, he's out there with Dirk 'n Hal. One of them'll introduce you—" 

Yeah, he's gone. Fastest fuckin' kid you've ever met. 

When you turn back to Karkat and Dave, the former's kneeling on the floor in front of the latter; Dave's leaning down far enough to press his forehead against Karkat's. Even from over here you can see that Dave's shaking badly enough that the way the demon's cradling his head is as much to hold him steady as it is to comfort him. 

Damn. This is a bad one. 

You lean against the fridge and just wait there, until you see Karkat take a deep, slow breath and some measure of the tension go out of Dave's shoulders. (You _could_ wait for them to let go of each other, but let's be real, that could be hours.) 

"You okay?" 

Dave shrugs slightly, and it's Karkat who actually answers. Dave's inflection and phrasing, though; they're either in each other's bodies, or so tangled up that there's no real distinction between their minds right now. 

"Kinda shook up. It's been a fuck of a long time since I had flashbacks that bad, y'know?" 

"Yeah. Grey says he's sorry." 

Karkat snorts, and Dave pulls away from him, sits up enough to raise an eyebrow at you. (And yep, that's Karkat's eyes under it. They're just straight-out flipped this time, still controlling their own bodies but speaking through each other, seeing through each other's eyes. You think. You still don't quite get how this works, even after all this time.) As he sits up, Karkat turns to face you, leaning back against Dave's legs and reaching up to find his hand. 

"What the fuck does he have to be sorry for?" This time it's Dave that speaks, even if his eyes are still demon-red, and his tone is one of honest confusion. "Fuck, I didn't stab him, did I? Shit got kinda blurry for a second—" 

"Nah, Davesprite stopped you before you stabbed anybody." And, even though you know nothing of the sort, "I don't think you woulda hurt him anyway—" 

" _Liar,_ " Karkat drawls out, leaning his head back against Dave's hand. "I saw—" 

"—the guy who was gonna kill Bro," Dave picks up again, closing his eyes and grimacing. "And then probably kill me. I panicked." 

Well, fuck. "He hurt you? Back then?" 

"Nah. Bro picked up a hit on the guy and brought me along. He just fucked up trying to ambush the fucker. His name's Grey?" When you nod, Dave continues even though he's got his eyes closed. "Yeah. I never got his name...his kid's named Galekh, I remember that. I was like thirteen and I broke Galekh's nose, I think, 'cause he held me back when I tried to keep Grey from kicking Bro's ribs in." 

Huh. You didn't know Grey had a kid. 

"You want me to make sure he steers clear of you for a while?" If Dave says yes...you don't really know what you'll do, exactly. Figure out some arrangement that'll keep Grey in some part of the house that Dave doesn't frequent. You guess there's a chance that the house would actually facilitate that for you; it does have a habit of rearranging itself to make life easier. Sometimes. 

Or you could...take Grey somewhere else. If you need to. There's no way you're willingly letting him leave you again, though.

But Dave and Karkat shake their heads in a unison that'd be eerie if you weren't pretty damn used to it. 

"Give me ten minutes," Dave says. "Then we can try a take two on this shit, if he's not fuckin' terrified of me now." 

You have to stifle a laugh. "Kid, I don't think you even registered as a threat...you cool with me leaving y'all in here, right?" 

"Yeah, yeah, go be gay with your boyfriend."

* * *

"You didn't say no to elemental." 

"Technically I haven't said no to anything, Hal." 

" ...so what I'm hearing is, you _are_ an elemental."

"He's not an elemental, Hal. Scoot." He does not scoot. Not until you smack him (gently) (ish) over the head, and even then you get a grumble and an eye-roll as he slides to the other end of the couch, giving you your opening to flop down next to Grey. As soon as you do, Seb wiggles from Grey's lap to yours, batting that one floppy ear out of his face again. (It may be time to fix the wire that's supposed to hold that one up.) 

"I like your boyfriend," he tells you, very seriously. 

"I like my boyfriend too, kiddo." You grin at Seb and lean against aforementioned boyfriend, feeling the vibration of his soft chuckle as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. Behind you, Davesprite giggles as Grey leans over to kiss your cheek. "Is that how you say you like me too, babe?" 

"Mm. Mhm." Grey pulls away before you can shift to kiss him back. You guess that's for the best; no makeouts on the couch. Not when other people are home. "Is Dave all right?" 

"He said he would be, in a couple minutes." 

"So he's coming down from that shit by flipping with Karkat." Dirk doesn't make it a question, but you nod anyway. 

"Yeah. He said Grey broke Bro's ribs during a murder attempt like, a year after that fucker ditched us." 

"Congratulations, Grey, we owe you a prize," Hal says. Dirk just grins, way brighter than his usual smile, and leans over to hold his hand up. 

The fact that Grey high-fives him without being prompted is another good sign for his immediate inclusion in this family, you think. He belongs here, with you. 

As soon as Dirk lowers his hand, Hal asks, "So that fucker wanted to kill you...you could be a werewolf? He always hated weres." 

"He hated everything that wasn't human and a bunch of shit that was, Hal," Dirk points out. "If Grey's a were, he's doing a damn good job of staying fully human." 

"Oh, and I'm sure you have a better guess?" 

Dirk considers Grey for a moment, frowning slightly. It's that look he gets when he's analyzing things, and you're fairly confident that he won't come to the correct conclusion. (Why would he? As far as he knows, mothman doesn't exist. You wouldn't know mothman existed if you hadn't seen the guy sitting next to you in his fully cryptid form.) 

"Halfblood mer," he says, after a good thirty seconds, and Hal immediately shakes his head. 

"Big enough, yeah, but too dry. His hair's just really nice, not wet." (This is where Grey rubs his face with one hand, obviously trying to hide a grin. You're not even trying to hide yours.) "Hm. I mean, D picked him up around Point Pleasant...obviously, he found mothman and dragged him back here for us to fawn over." 

To Grey's credit, he just doesn't react. You laugh, because even if the sarcasm in Hal's tone wouldn't be apparent to anyone else you can still hear it, and the fact that he's obviously not going to consider that as a legit possibility is _hilarious._

"That counts as your turn to guess," Dirk points out. 

"Fuck you, it was a joke!" 

"You still said it!" 

You snort, looking up at Grey. "They've been doing this the whole time, huh?" 

"They have. Are they always like this?" 

"Oh yeah, definitely. Just wait until you're sitting in on movie night and it's Karkat 'n Dave's turn to pick. We have world war three once a month." 

" ...ah. I can't wait."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw on this chapter for violence, harm to a kid, and uhhhh murder

Two months, and the kids still haven't figured it out. At this point you think Dave's just kinda accepted it, and Dirk's only still guessing because he hates to give up on shit; Hal's the only one who's still wholeheartedly trying to puzzle out the mystery of what the fuck Grey is. He's not really gotten anywhere near the answer, and you're pretty sure it's driving him crazy. The fact that his own boyfriend dropped some hints that he _does_ know (as in, the moment Equius saw Grey he dropped to his knees and bowed his head like he'd just realized he was in the presence of goddamn royalty and refused to rise again until Grey snapped at him in what you really think was some dialect of French) is probably adding to the irritation. 

Eh, at least he's not showing it by being pissed at Grey directly. It'll be fine. Anyway he's not in your immediate vicinity right now; it's just you draped over Grey's lap on the couch, with Davesprite curled in the space that you don't take up. He's got his wings wrapped around himself, so it's kinda like having a very large and affectionate bird cuddled up to you. 

Despite the fact that he's seen the movie Grey picked at least seven or eight times, Davesprite's completely absorbed in it. As far as you know Grey's not seen this one, though; other than the small bit of attention needed for him to keep rubbing at the sensitive place between your shoulders in that absently comforting way that you would literally die for, he's just as focused. You, on the other hand, are much more interested in enjoying the two of them snuggled up this close to you. This doesn't mean that you have any more spare attention than Grey or Davesprite do; if anything, you realize something's wrong slower than either of them. 

When you do realize, it's because Davesprite's wings flex and spread, blocking your view as he hunches forward. Grey's hand comes down over your mouth before you can complain. 

God help you, but you instinctively lick his fucking hand. The fact that he doesn't even react clues you in that something's fucked; Davesprite rolling silently off your lap and crouching to fish around under the couch just confirms it.

You know _exactly_ what he's after under there. It takes maybe ten seconds of tugging at Grey's wrist to get him to pull his hands off your mouth; you have a feeling he'll clap it right down again if he needs to. Which he doesn't. He totally doesn't. 

"Davesprite, drop the fucking knife!" Okay, so maybe he does; you're willing to admit that that hissed sentence was a little louder than needed. Again, you smack at Grey's wrist until he loosens up, and make more of an effort to keep your words no louder than your movements, as you slide off his lap and onto the floor next to Davesprite. "Give it. Now."

"Let him keep it." Grey's voice is a nearly subsonic rumble, hitting the registers that make you melt under literally any circumstances that don't include you staring down a cockatrice for possession of a hunting knife. "Something's here." 

"What? Babe, we have perimeter alarms—" 

"Humans don't set them off," Davesprite whispers, scooting backwards as you make a grab for the knife. "D...fuck, it's _them_." You

"Them?" He doesn't answer you, just shakes his head and clutches the still-sheathed blade to his chest; you look up at Grey for answers. 

Which you ain't getting right now, apparently. He just meets your eyes for a fraction of a second—long enough that you see his flicker from dark and familiar to inhuman red facets, and back again—and then rises to his feet in one smooth motion. "Stay here." 

"Fuck you?" 

" _Stay. Here._ With Davesprite. Understand?" 

Fuck, that's not fair. Dom voice _and_ cashing in on your mama hen instinct...and he's already out of the room. You sigh and lean over to retrieve the other knife stashed under the couch.

Davesprite's up on the back of the couch before you straighten up again. You're starting to really wish he'd hand over that knife; his eyes are a much better weapon, and the way he's holding it makes you worry he'll hurt himself more than any possible attacker, if he tries to draw it. Then again, if there's a problem Grey will handle it, nothing's gonna make it in here, everything's gonna be _fine_ —

Thanks to the nature of the safehouse (unfathomable, sentient and possibly sapient, constantly rearranging itself) you're not really sure where in the house this room is. Wherever it is, there's a window across from the door Grey left by, curtains currently drawn because who the fuck watches a movie in a room with an open window? There's a window, and a pile of cushions under the window because both John and Karkat have a thing for naps in glass-filtered sunshine, and none of those fucking details actually matter right now because right now, the glass just _explodes_ inward like someone packed explosives into the frame. 

You get time to spin around, get the knife in your hand drawn and raised, get a look at the two fuckers in green uniforms that're probably military surplus and bug-eyed facemasks that are definitely _not._ You actually even have time to ID the guy on the left as the main danger, because he's the one who's got a blade—a three-foot machete that'll be a fucking problem to dodge or block in close quarters. 

However, you don't have time to do anything about this, because the guy on the right raises something that resembles a revolver in about the same way that a furby resembles a chicken, and shoots you with what you assume is some kind of fucking taser. 

Well. That's what you'd assume, if you were capable of forming any thoughts past the surprisingly agonizing pain in your shoulder. And in literally everything else. Holy _shit_ you might actually be dying? Even if you're not dying, you _are_ on the floor, body seizing up around the current that's still trying to stop or restart your heart, seeing nothing but white and hearing nothing but the sharp idiot sounds coming out of your own throat. 

No. No, that's not true. You can hear Davesprite gasping out muffled cawing screams, and even if you can't really breathe right now that's enough to get you to force yourself up off the floor _somehow_ , up on your knees and trying really damn hard to keep from grabbing at the tight feeling in your chest as you blink until the room comes into focus. 

The assholes have completely lost interest in you, probably because they assumed you'd be out of commission one way or another for a bit longer. All that attention's on your fucking kid—Davesprite's on the floor with one guy pinning his wings down, the other one kneeling on his back with that huge fucking blade—

They're hurting your kid, they're cutting off his fucking _wings_ , your brain just fucking shuts off. 

"Get the fuck _offa_ him—" 

Not keeping your mouth shut almost gets you killed; the one with the machete half-turns to face you even as you get your legs underneath yourself and lunge for him. Another fraction of a second and he'd have had it at the right angle to rip something important open (throat? chest? does it matter?) but the part of you that comes online when your reasoning goes off times this shit just right, and you crash into him with way more force than grace. 

Too fast. It's dizzying, it hurts. But fast is good, because it also means you surprise the asshole enough that he can't block you from getting both hands clamped down around his neck as the both of you roll off Davesprite's prone body, means he can't stop you from slamming his head down against the floor and yanking him back up and down again until you see his blood and the hand still locked around that fucking machete goes limp. 

The other guy dives for it as soon as it hits the floor, of course, and there's no way you're gonna be fast enough to get it first. You let him get it, you let him turn back to grab one of Davesprite's wings and wrench it upwards and dear god you're too _slow_ , rescuing the hunting knife from where Davesprite dropped it on the couch only takes maybe two seconds but it's too long. It's too fucking long. 

Davesprite screams again, not at all muffled this time because both of the bastard's hands are occupied with trying to saw through skin and muscle and fragile hollow bone, and the sound cuts into your head like a goddamn scalpel. If the thinking half of you was in charge, this is where you'd break. 

Maybe you do break a little, but it's not enough to stop you from hooking the fingers of your free hand into the complicated plastic intricacies of the fucker's mask, jerking back as hard as you can, and drawing the knife across his throat in one practiced, smooth motion. Once is enough—the amount of blood that instantly covers your hand and forearm proves that you got what you needed to—but you drag him back as far as you can without getting to your feet and do it again. And again. And one more time, with enough force that the blade lodges in bone. 

You want to keep going. He hurt your kid, you want to keep cutting until there's nothing left. 

But Davesprite is sobbing as he struggles to push himself up, and you should have tended to him already. You shove the not-quite-dead body to one side, crawl the two feet to where you can reach your kid, and gather him up into your arms. 

He tries to fold his wings in as he grabs at your shoulders, and wails again as that tears the deep gash at the joining of his wings and his back open further. And this time you don't have the buffer of Fighter D to keep you from processing that scream, or the broken whimpers that it dies down into as his face presses into your chest and his talons rip your blood-wet shirt as they dig into your shoulders; if you know what needs to be done here, you sure as fuck can't think of it. 

"It fuckin' _hurts_ , D—please, it hurts—" he sobs out into your shirt, and you take maybe the first breath since the little metal darts embedded themselves into your skin and sent way too much electricity arcing into your system, and force out a cry of your own. 

"Grey? _Grey_! Grey, fuck, Grey—" 

It doesn't take very many repetitions of his name. Six, maybe. Seven. You can't count right now. All you know is that you call for him and only stop because something happens in your chest that makes you gasp and struggle to breathe and maybe black out for a second, because you blink and he's _there,_ kneeling in front of you and fully in that other form—black fur or black feathers tipped with subtle red, antennae tucked back to keep them safe, wings just barely open behind him. 

Grey meets your eyes and _changes_ , and before he can open his mouth to say whatever the fuck he was about to say you choke on another breath and sob out, "Babe, please, I can't fix this shit, _please_ —" 

"Shh, beloved. Let me see." 

God, you don't want to let go. You can't let go, and apparently Grey recognizes that. Instead of trying to pry your hands off the sobbing cockatrice, he just nudges them aside enough that they're not resting on any part of Davesprite's wings, one hand coming up to rest on that feathery head. "Davesprite. Listen." 

Davesprite shakes his head, then tilts it back to look at you. You get a glimpse of tearstained cheeks and wet orange eyes, and then close your own against a dangerously painful wave of nausea—he's not even kind of in control of his powers, right now. " _Hurts—_ my wings, they took my _wings_ —" 

"Not quite, my brave one. I'm going to help you fold them away, all right?" When Davesprite whimpers and tries to press himself harder into your chest, Grey lets out a breath that you're not sure is quite steady. "This will make it better, Davesprite, I promise it—" 

"Oh, gods," Jake says from the doorway, and Grey snarls deeper in his chest than a human can, rises to his feet and whirls to face the possible threat and _changes_ in less than a heartbeat. His wings spread to their full span—god, you don't even know how they fit in this space, you've seen them spread only twice and they've got to be twenty feet across. He's shielding you and Davesprite. 

Unfortunately, he's shielding you from your fucking kids, and one of them just might shoot him for it. "Grey, _no_ —" 

"Grey?" That's Hal, stunned and horrified enough that static bleeds through into his voice. As Grey folds his wings down into nothing, shifts back to merely human, you see that the look on the shikigami's face matches his tone perfectly. " _Mothman_?" 

Oh dear fucking lord you're going to be in so much shit once the shit you're currently in gets cleared up. 

Grey just shakes his head like he's flicking off an insect and drops to his knees next to you; after a moment Hal joins him, reaching out to smooth down Davesprite's hair. 

"What the fuck happened?" he asks. 

You open your mouth, close it long enough to swallow around whatever the fuck is caught in your throat, and force out five words that don't explain a damn thing that isn't already apparent. "They hurt my fucking kid." 

"But—" 

"Quiet," Grey growls. It's a tone that doesn't allow argument, one that probably should be intimidating. It makes you almost sob with relief, because to you it means he's going to fix this shit. "Hal, help me. Davesprite, Hal's here, all right?" 

"I'm right here, bro." Hal lets go of whatever he wants to ask instantly, letting Grey guide his hands to Davesprite's limp wings, find the places he can grasp to help them fold again. "Oh, shit—this is going to hurt for a minute, Davesprite—" 

It does hurt. You know it hurts, because when Hal gently pulls Davesprite's orange-feathered wings in to fold first against his back and then sink into his skin, the cockatrice shrieks until your ears ring and your head aches. They hurt him, and even if you know that it's to keep him from bleeding out you still can't fucking stand it. 

Shit gets fuzzy for a second. Then you realize that Grey's patiently prying your hands off Davesprite's shoulders, Hal's telling you to let him take him so John can start working on bandaging the cuts still left on his back, and you force yourself to let go. 

As soon as Hal's lifted the apparently unconscious cockatrice off your lap, Grey kneels in front of you, big hands coming up to cradle your head so that you literally can't just collapse backwards like you want to. "I'm so sorry, _uwoduhi_..." 

"Not your fault." Ah, shit, you're gonna cry. You can't quite remember how to raise your hands, but you can manage to lean forward, and Grey dips his head until his forehead presses against yours, warm and solid and _comforting._ "They wanted him." 

"They came because of me, D." Grey's voice is soft enough that you wonder if he's really speaking to you, and guilty enough that you wonder if he heard what you said. "If I'd been more careful—" 

"Those fuckers came because they wanted Davesprite." You're not really sure how much longer you can keep talking; it's getting harder and harder to not just close your eyes and let yourself check out. "They're...god, I can't fucking remember what it stood for, HDB...all the paperwork Hal 'n Roxanne dug out of that fuckin'....that fuckin' shithole had the machete on it, it's their fuckin' fetish..." 

Grey's hands tighten enough that you gasp, at that. As soon as you do he lets go, staring at you like he can't believe he heard you right. "HDB." 

"...yeah." Oh wait. You're going into shock again. Okay, yeah, that's not _great_ but it's better than dying. 

"Human Defense Brigade." 

"Grey, I don't _remember_ , I can't _think_ —" 

"I know, love, I know. I'm sorry. Come here." That last command doesn't require any action by you; Grey gathers you up in his arms, lifts you off the bloody floor and rises to his feet.

You close your eyes as soon as he picks you up. As soon as you close your eyes, you're gone.

* * *

The really unsettling thing about when you fall into this specific kind of fucked-up state is that you're not unconscious, not really. It's kind of like being blackout drunk and kind of like an out of body experience, and when you come back to reality you're in one of the kitchen chairs, shirt gone, staring mindlessly at Dirk as he wipes red splatters off your arms with a damp towel. 

"...Dirk." 

"Yeah." His shades are hooked into his shirt, so you can see how his orange eyes flick up to your face for a second. "Are you back?" 

"...yeah. I'm back. Where's—" _Davesprite. Grey. Hal._ Too many names try to force themselves out at once, and Dirk drops the towel and grabs your hand as you shudder, turning it palm-up and pressing two fingers ever-so-gently against the outer edge of your wrist. 

While you're still processing that, he answers all of the permutations of the question you started asking. "Hal's got Davesprite, don't worry. We patched him up already; Karkat can finish fixing it for good once he gets back. John and Jake are moving bodies—Grey took out three of them, you got two—" 

" _Grey_." Your voice breaks on that one word. 

"...I don't know. He left—" 

" _Fuck_." 

"Not like that." Dirk exhales, slow and steady enough that you _know_ he's struggling to keep everything under wraps, and lets go of your wrist for a second so he can pull his chair around next to yours, wrap his arms around you and wait for you to lean into him. "He's pissed. He's going to fuck some shit up, then he'll be back, D. He's coming back to you." 

"...'m pretty sure I oughta be the one handlin' breakups for you, Dirk." You inhale and realize that the sound that just came out of you counts as a sniffle. Ouch. 

"No thanks." He shifts a bit, reaching for your hand; when he wraps his fingers around your wrist you realize that he's taking your pulse. Again. 

"My heart's beating fine, bro, quit it." 

"D, you just got zapped by something that might have been designed to be lethal and you've seized up twice in the fifteen minutes you were out." Dirk sounds almost exasperated with you now; definitely an improvement over struggling for control over himself. "Sit still and let me count for a minute." 

...you guess you can do that, yeah.

* * *

Hal is _absolutely_ pissed about the fact that you've been dating mothman for like five months, but he doesn't act on it. Not yet, anyway. Right now he just reassures you when Dirk finally lets you get up and hover anxiously over the puppypile that the younger Striders have created around Davesprite, promises you that the kid's gonna be okay, Seb and Jr are tracking all of his vital signs just in case anything beyond the gash across his back goes wrong. Which it won't, and you should either lie down with them on the couch or go lie down by yourself. 

You do the latter, mostly because you need to have some kind of meltdown right now and it's less of a thing if you do it in your room. Your and Grey's room. 

Dirk wouldn't give you back your shirt—you suspect he dumped in the pile of bloodstained shit John and Jake stripped off today's attackers, to be burned at some point—so you have an excuse to dig out one of Grey's instead, a sweater that hasn't made it into the laundry yet. It's too big and soft as a cloud and smells like sweetness and cinnamon, and you collapse onto the bed, pull the neckline up over your nose, and let all the fear and pain and worry balled up in your chest out as painfully harsh sobs and tears that feel like they're burning. 

_He's gone,_ something in you weeps, and you don't know if it means Grey or Davesprite. _He's gone, he won't come back._

Now, you _know_ that's not true. For either of them. Davesprite's going to be okay, Grey's going to come back to you. You know that, you just...can't tell yourself it's true. 

Instead, you curl up into a sobbing ball and cry yourself to sleep.

* * *

"Oh, sweetheart." 

Grey's voice startles you out of shallow sleep, not that it matters—you haven't managed to shake off sleep-limpness before he scoops you up off the bed, lifts you and shifts you so that it's his warm body under you rather than blankets. He makes a soft sound deep in his chest when you loop your arms around his neck and press your face into the hollow of his throat, a noise like an insect who's been learning to purr.

You can feel his heartbeat. Something about that makes your breath hitch in your chest again, and Grey's hand comes up to stroke through your hair as tears start dripping onto his skin. 

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and then, when you ball up your fist and slam it down onto his shoulder with absolutely no force whatsoever, "all right, I won't say that. But I should have waited." 

"Where." You could format an actual question, but Grey understands and answers with only that single whispered word to go on. 

"I...spoke to someone who used to work for me. She has my place in—in the organization now; I shouldn't have any authority left at all, but she owes me favors." (You don't know what he's talking about. You don't care.) "The people that arranged this...they'll pay." 

"Mhm." You believe him. "Stay?" 

Grey's arms settle around you, gentle and comforting. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he says, and you're tired as fuck but you still have the energy to lift your head and kiss him. 

Fuck, but you love him so much. You're so fucking lucky.


End file.
